Alcalá la Real

A Fortress That Still Commands Respect

The A-44 motorway drops you in a sea of olive trees that stretches farther than any Cotswold view. Forty-five minutes after leaving Granada airport, Alcala la Real appears—not as a sleepy hamlet, but as a working town of 21,000 whose skyline is still ruled by the Fortaleza de la Mota. From the bottom of the hill it looks almost decorative; climb the cobbled lanes and you understand why medieval commanders called this ridge the “Key of Granada.”

English is spoken at the castle ticket office, though a quick “buenas tardes” earns warmer replies. The site is bigger than it looks: expect at least ninety minutes if you intend to walk the full circuit of walls, duck into the excavated grain stores and climb the bell tower of the Iglesia Mayor Abacial. Surfaces are uneven—pregnant Roman sandals, not flip-flops—and shade is scarce even in April. Bring water; the only vending machine hides inside the museum and is often out of order.

Entry is €6 for adults, cash or card. Spanish school parties arrive around 11 a.m.; aim for opening time (10 a.m.) or after 4 p.m. when the heat softens and the light turns butter-yellow over the olive groves. On clear days you can pick out the snow-streaked Sierra Nevada to the south-east, a sight that still makes local taxi drivers stop for photos.

Up and Down the Hill Town

Below the fortress the historic centre tumbles down a slope steep enough to turn a stroll into a cardio session. Streets are properly cobbled, not tourist-smooth, so wear trainers unless you fancy explaining to a Spanish pharmacist how you twisted an ankle on a fifteenth-century stone.

Start at Plaza del Ayuntamiento, the easiest reference point, then drift upwards. The sixteenth-century Iglesia de la Consolación flashes its baroque portal like a dare. Further on, the Palacio Abacial houses temporary art shows; even if the exhibition isn’t earth-shattering, the building’s stone staircase gives a crash-course in ecclesiastical power dressing. Duck into the courtyard for free.

Houses here mix grand knock-knocker doors with satellite dishes and weekend laundry. Grandmotherly voices echo from interior patios where the smell of stewing chickpeas leaks into the street. It feels lived-in, not curated—refreshing if you’ve spent the morning dodging Segways in the Alhambra.

Tuesday’s Take-over

Market day transforms the modern lower town. From 9 a.m. the weekly mercado colonises Avenida de Andalucía: socks next to sword-lettuce, phone cases beside quartered lambs. British visitors tend to hover around the olive stall where plastic bottles are filled straight from 25-litre drums for €3.50. The atmosphere is loud, honest and mercifully free of fridge-magnet stalls. Car parks fill fast; use the underground “Aparcamiento Mercado” by the bus station (€1.20 for two hours) or accept a 10-minute uphill walk back to the car.

What to Eat Between Climbs

Lunchtimes run late—don’t expect a full menu before 1.30 p.m. Rincón de Pepe on Calle Ancha offers an English translation of its €15 menú del día: three courses, bread and a glass of robust local tempranillo. The grilled entrecôte arrives sizzling on a terracotta tile, a flourish that would feel gimmicky in Guildford but seems perfectly normal here.

For something quicker, Bar El Olivo hands out free tapas with each drink. Order a caña (small beer) and you might receive a terracotta dish of carne en salsa—beef so soft it surrenders to a plastic spoon. Vegetarians head to Casa de los Pájaros for walnut-crusted quiche and coffee ground strong enough to keep you marching up to the fortress again.

Dinner is lighter: most kitchens close by 4 p.m. and reopen only after 8.30 p.m. If that sounds too late, buy a slice of torta de nata y nueces at Pastelería La Purísima and treat it as high tea.

Olive Oil, Bike Tracks and Summer Beats

Olive groves aren’t scenery—they’re the local economy. Between November and February the harvest is in full swing; tractors hauling plastic bins of fruit clog the ring road at dawn. Several cooperatives offer free tastings if you phone ahead—look for “almazara” on Google Maps rather than “museum,” or you’ll end up in an interpretive centre full of touch screens and no oil.

Cyclists can pick up the Vía Verde del Aceite, a disused railway line converted into a 55-km path that rolls gently through the groves towards Jaén. Bike hire is available from the tourist office (€15 half-day) but bring your own helmet; Spanish health-and-safety hasn’t quite caught up.

Music fans should time a visit for mid-July’s Etnosur festival. Entry is free, stages are scattered through the old town, and the lineup hops from Senegalese kora to Basque punk. The crowd is young, barefoot and appreciative of cold beer at €2 a plastic cup. Even if world music isn’t your thing, the people-watching is first-rate.

When to Come—and When to Stay Away

Spring and autumn deliver 22 °C afternoons and cool enough nights for a jacket. Easter (Semana Santa) brings candle-lit processions that inch up the fortress hill; hotels sell out in Jaén province but Alcala still has rooms at €65 for a double.

July and August are doable thanks to the town’s 900-metre altitude, but the castle is a fry-up by noon. If you must come in high summer, sightsee before 11 a.m., siesta through the afternoon and re-emerge after 7 p.m. when the stone walls release their stored heat like storage radiators.

Winter is quiet—too quiet for some. Bars keep Spanish hours but half the restaurants shut. On the plus side you’ll have La Mota almost to yourself and hotel rates drop to €40 with breakfast. Snow is rare yet possible; the A-44 is gritted, but the fortress paths ice over. Wear grippy soles or accept a undignified descent on your backside.

Getting Here Without Tears

A hire car remains the least stressful option: Granada airport is 45 minutes on the A-44, Málaga 90. Parking at the castle is free and plentiful before 11 a.m.; after that you circle with the tour coaches. Without wheels, ALSA runs ten daily buses from Granada (€7.50, 75 min) and Jaén (€9, 90 min). Buy your seat online—Spanish schoolchildren board at random stops and unreserved travellers end up standing in the aisle. Local taxis from the bus station to the fortress cost €6 and save a calf-burning climb if you’re luggage-laden.

The Honest Verdict

Alcala la Real is not postcard-perfect. You will hear traffic, see graffiti and walk past shuttered houses whose paint has given up. Yet that slight roughness is precisely what makes the place feel alive. The fortress delivers genuine wow-factor, the olive groves soothe the eye for miles, and the Tuesday market reminds you that Spain carries on beyond the souvenir fridge-magnet. Come for a day from Granada by all means, but stay the night and you’ll witness something increasingly rare: a southern Spanish town that closes its bars at midnight because locals have work in the morning, not because the last tour coach has left.